


I got you, Comrade

by redperil



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M, Torture, Trust Issues, napoleon never catches a break
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2018-12-23 18:04:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11995125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redperil/pseuds/redperil
Summary: Spending a few days in Rome wasn't enough to totally deal with the issue of a fully fledged CIA/KGB partnership. It's not that Napoleon's expecting a bullet in the back or anything; in any case, Peril always shoots people head on.





	1. the MoMA is great

Kuryakin is in a bad mood, Napoleon can tell. He's been glaring at the seat in front of him for the entire flight, as if he concentrates hard enough the pilot will turn the plane around. The flight attendant had immediately given up after getting the world's coldest "No." to a hot beverage. 

They're supposed to travel as individuals, so Napoleon wheels his luggage in a wide circle around customs when he gets out first, waiting to intercept Kuryakin when he gets through. He can see the Russian's eyes narrowing as he walks closer. They walk right past each other, looking straight forward, but Napoleon slows just enough to whisper, "How's your American accent, Peril?" 

Kuryakin's jaw clenches as he sweeps past. Napoleon firmly clamps down on his grin. 

They meet up at the Waldorf Astoria; only the city's finest for an heiress and her fiancee, both with a taste for contemporary art, and a Russian art broker. Kuryakin's cover is Russian because his American accent is, objectively, atrocious. It is also hilarious, but Napoleon expects he'll never attempt it again after his and Gaby's reactions to it. 

 

There is a sharp knock on the room he and Gaby are sharing near midnight, Kuryakin stomping in with a grumble of acknowledgement when Napoleon opens the door. 

"You ready for the sweep?" Napoleon asks. Their current mission involves saving the French Ambassador, and more importantly, countless pieces of fine art from an assassination threat within the MoMA. Sources had hinted at a bomb, though Napoleon wondered what heathen would blow up innocent canvases. 

"Of course." Kuryakin is pacing. He hasn't had to diverge much from his normal outfit of choice-a black turtleneck and black leggings, his light hair covered by a black flat cap. Napoleon is similarly clad with the exception of a black leather jacket, because fashion is paramount. 

Gaby pokes her head out of the bedroom in a bathrobe. "You boys have fun now." she winks. The bathtub faucet turns on moments later. Napoleon is almost envious of her decidedly undeveloped recon skills; it means he's the only person left to scout while Red Peril bulldozes anyone unfortunate enough to be on the scene. And that includes Napoleon. 

They're nearing twenty four hours without sleep now, though Kuryakin still looks like he could run a marathon and then strangle ten men. Napoleon looks at the couch forlornly. He'd dive wholeheartedly onto those cushions for a few hours if not for the Russian bear still pacing by the windows. They may be partners, but Napoleon wasn't about to go knock out around him. Not intentionally, anyways. Instead he yawns, perhaps slightly louder than necessary, and watches Kuryakin try to stifle a yawn of his own with amusement. 

Kuryakin pauses his floor polishing. "You are sure museum is memorized?"

"I could find you a piece in the MoMA with my eyes closed." Napoleon replies, and it's hardly an exaggeration. He'd (allegedly) pulled some of his bests heists in that place. In a rare moment of good decision making, he turns to the coffee instead of the decanter. He holds a mug out to Kuryakin. "Want some?"

Kuryakin's face would almost be an open book if it didn't have such limited settings, those being seriousness, rage, and suspicion. The latter expression is clear on his face when he says "No, thank you." 

Napoleon takes a burning sip from the mug he'd offered Kuryakin and lifts an eyebrow to say _see, not poisoned._

 

By the time they head out it's nearing four in the morning, and the streets are quiet but not quite dead. Security into the museum is no more difficult to circumvent this time around; seems those missing statues hadn't been enough incentive for them to invest in some better people. They make their way to the new gallery, Napoleon leading for once, and sweep the entire area. 

Kuryakin has a habit of grabbing Napoleon into hiding when someone is coming while they sneak about. He goes along with it only because he can't exactly argue audibly in the moment, and Kuryakin has a grip of fucking steel that he couldn't shake off if he wanted to. But despite the fact that Napoleon should be used to it by now, a little thrill of fear still jolts through him when the security guard's steps draw near and the Russian giant drags him back into the shadows. His hand is like a vice around Napoleon's forearm even when they settle in their hiding spot, uncomfortably pressed front to back, as if Napoleon is liable to run out and announce his presence to the guard. 

The clap of boots on marble nears their hiding spot by a few meters and then starts receding, disappearing as the guard walks out of the gallery altogether. Napoleon is getting to know exactly how much taller Kuryakin is based on where the man's breath is disturbing his hair. He moves his arm and the Russian doesn't let go. 

"Peril." he whispers, shaking again. "As nice as this is, could you maybe let go of me?"

Kuryakin lets go and slides out from behind him so fast Napoleon almost falls back a little. Kuryakin is staring at his hand like it was acting of its own accord. 

The rest of the sweep goes as planned. No bombs have been planted—of course it couldn't have been that easy. 

"Should have just gone to bed." Napoleon grumbles as they step onto the street and start heading back to the Waldorf. 

"You live too comfortably, Cowboy." Kuryakin says, his low voice carrying across the dark alley. When Napoleon turns his head he can hardly see him. "Like all capitalists."

"Say that the next time we're getting shot at, Peril." 

"Is true." 

"Well then I'd hate to see uncomfortable living. Oh wait, I've seen it. He's six foot five and Russian."

The only reply is a huff in the dark. 

 

The gallery opening starts off without a hitch, Napoleon gliding in with Gaby on his arm, at the heels of the French ambassador and his wife. Kuryakin follows them in a few minutes later and stays to the corners of the room, faking sips of champagne and using his considerable height to scan the crowd of any would be bomb-threats. 

"This one here is quite marvelous, darling." Gaby says, gesturing at a canvas littered in primary colored dots. 

Napoleon smiles; Gaby dislikes abstract expressionism with a passion. "It really captures a certain mood, doesn't it?" 

"Mmhm." Gaby turns slightly and snatches a glass, her gaze flitting across the room. "Your four o' clock, blonde girl, red dress." 

Napoleon turns for a drink of his own and looks her over. Her eyes are certainly flickering enough to be suspicious, and her clutch is just a touch too large to qualify as a proper one. It's also completely unsuitable for that dress. She looks over at Napoleon and he quickly averts his gaze but the damage is done; she must be on edge, walking off swiftly. Heading right towards the French ambassador. 

"Blonde approaching mark." Napoleon says quietly; only the earpiece needs to pick it up. Across the room he sees Kuryakin step towards the ambassador, and then there's a blinding light and deafening bang. A fucking flash grenade. 

The screams and mass exodus of the gallery are immediate, though half the crowd is on the floor reeling or unconscious. Napoleon blinks against his shifting vision, his ears ringing, arms braced on a wall he doesn't remember falling against. His hearing filters in the screams and a woman's demanding voice, Kuryakin's responding baritone. He lifts his head and sees Kuryakin pointing his gun at him. Or not at him; slightly above him. Oh. 

He's aiming at the blonde. Her gun is pressed firmly into Napoleon's skull. 

The ambassador is unconscious by Kuryakin's feet. 

"I promise you," she says, and her voice is silky. It reminds him of Victoria, though this woman is clearly in no mood to play friendly. "Your friend here will be dead if you don't do as I say, the moment I say it."

"Not a friend." Kuryakin says, and Napoleon isn't sure he's lying. He can see the blonde's finger already applying pressure to the trigger; a touch away from splattering Napoleon's brain matter on such fine art. It would really be so easy. And Kuryakin would be rid of his irritating partnership with an American spy. 

"Hm." she says, and moves so fast Napoleon can't even bend over from the pain before the burning barrel is pressed back on his scalp. His shoulder is screaming, and he might also have been, for a second, he's not too sure. His hearing is ringing again. Napoleon looks up at Kuryakin and sees a cold mask on his face, looks down at the blood starting to soak his suit. What a shame. "Want me to keep going?"

No answer. Napoleon wonders why Kuryakin hasn't just shot her yet. She shifts again and this time the bullet pierces his thigh; probably doesn't hit an artery, still hurts like hell. He tries not to scream and is only partially successful. In the haze of pain, he half wishes Kuryakin would just let her shoot him and get it over with. Maybe he wants to watch Napoleon turn into American cheddar cheese first. 

"Next bullet goes through his brainstem." she says, and Napoleon believes her. "Ready to do as I say?" 

Silence. Napoleon closes his eyes and in the moment, he hurts enough that checking out doesn't seem like the worst thing in the world. 

"What do you want?" 

Kuryakin's voice rumbles through Napoleon like an electric jolt. He looks up at the Russian in mild shock.

"Put down your gun." The blonde says, digging the barrel of her own gun into Napoleon's hair. He hears a gun clatter to the floor. She tosses Kuryakin a pair of handcuffs. "Lock yourself to the radiator, both hands."

Napoleon watches uncomprehendingly as the Russian snaps the cuffs around his wrist and loops them through the radiator, as if he's just following orders from Waverly. He can feel the blonde relaxing next to him as her threat locks himself up across the room, the weight of the barrel against his head lessening. Napoleon takes his chance. 

His dive at her legs isn't graceful, but it moves the gun away from his head and surprised her enough that he can rip it from her grasp without much trouble. He stands and ignores how his thigh and shoulder scream at the movement, shoots her in the knee to keep her from running. He hobbles backwards with the gun trained on her till his back hits the radiator Kuryakin is chained to. Or rather, was chained to. He's ripped the cuffs in half. Napoleon finds himself keeling forward and then there's a vice like grip on his arm, pressure on his back. He's looking up at Kuryakin... he's being carried by Kuryakin. Great. 

"How's this for easy living?" Napoleon says, and blacks out. 

 

Napoleon wakes up in a warehouse, industrial lights beaming down too brightly as he lays in a hospital bed and watches the medic pack up his equipment. He doesn't recognize the place as a safe house, UNCLE or CIA, but doesn't put two and two together until he spots Kuryakin leaning against the wall to his left. 

"Is this a KGB safehouse?" Napoleon asks, surprised at how scratchy his voice sounds. 

Kuryakin's head whips up in surprise; he has a strange expression on his face for a moment. Something like relief, though Napoleon was probably just too high on painkillers to read people properly. 

"Former safehouse, now that I have brought you here." 

"Gaby?"

"She has already left the city." 

"What?" Napoleon tries to sit up and is reward by stabbing pain. "Fuck." 

Kuryakin is next to him in moments. "Do not pull stitches."

"Good advice, Peril." Napoleon says dryly. "So why did Gaby leave?"

"New mission. Museum attacker suggested attempts on French ambassador's life will continue during interrogation. There is a bounty."

"How much?"

"Ten million dollars." 

Napoleon whistles. "That's an expensive corpse." 

Kuryakin shoots him an unimpressed look. "The ambassador was unharmed after incident at MoMA." 

"That's good to hear." Memories of the 'incident at MoMA' rush through Napoleon's head; the flash, the gunshots, the absolute certainty that his head was about to be blown off. And then getting carried bridal style by Peril himself. Definitely not one of his finer moments. "Thank you, by the way." 

Kuryakin's eyebrows furrow. "For?"

"For not, you know. Not letting her shoot me."

"She shot you twice." 

"You know what I mean." Napoleon says. "Thanks for not letting me die."

Kuryakin nods but still looks confused. "That is one purpose of a partner."

Napoleon blinks. "Right." he says.


	2. Nurse Peril

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken so long! School has been hectic and I don't know why I made so many random commitments to things outside of school that now take up every second of the day. 
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoy,

It's been a good few years since Napoleon's been shot seriously. He'd forgotten how much he hates recovery.  
  
The first week is worst—he's bedridden, perpetually high, and Kuryakin is his sole caretaker. Waverly's orders were clear: Gaby continues researching the case at headquarters, and Kuryakin keeps an eye on Napoleon till he's deemed stable. Napoleon isn't sure which of them is more upset by the Russian's new role as babysitter.   
  
There are admittedly some upsides to the situation. He's privy to a rare off-duty Kuryakin that he's only previously seen glimpses of, a man who plays solo chess for hours on end and drinks copious amounts of black tea.   
  
Napoleon doesn't know what exactly changed in the week he spent lying in the warehouse hospital bed with nurse Kuryakin. It's a dull week by anyone's standards; he wakes up and Kuryakin gets breakfast, tosses him case files, grumbles a bit about being stuck in the states, gets lunch, grumbles, gets dinner. At one point Napoleon jokingly asks for some chocolate and actually gets a bar of dark mint tossed at him the next time Kuryakin returns from his food run. It's almost domestic.   
  
It's not until Napoleon starts phasing out of his pain medication and his dulled senses start returning that he realizes he's just spent some of his most vulnerable days in the care of Kuryakin. A KGB operative. In a KGB safe house.   
  
He thinks he might trust Kuryakin to not kill him in the immediate future. It's a scary thought.  
  
The warehouse doors swing open and Kuryakin steps in, a pair of crutches under his arm. He stops in front of the bed and doesn't react to Napoleon's blinding smile.   
  
"You are sure you can do this?" Kuryakin actually sounds more concerned than challenging.   
  
"As long as you're here to catch me." Napoleon winks. He sits up and tries not to wince as pain lances from his shoulder wound, swings his legs off the bed. Kuryakin gives him a look that says he's not fooled but still hands him the crutches, warily.   
  
He stands on the leg that hasn't been shot first, steadying himself with the crutches. His shoulder wound twinges when he actually tries to take a step, but the stitches don't seem to be pulling, and the pain is manageable. He'll stay in this safe house forever before he lets Kuryakin carry him out. Again.   
  
"When's the car coming?" he asks, partly to distract himself from the protesting of his entire body as he slowly hobbles from the bed to Kuryakin's weapons table. The Russian only lifts an eyebrow when Napoleon takes one of the smaller pistols and tucks it into his waistband.   
  
"Should be hour from now."   
  
"Great." Napoleon makes his way back to the bed, very aware of Kuryakin tracking his every move, and tries to get back onto the bed through a poorly planned hop. He's equal parts embarrassed and grateful when Kuryakin grabs him before he falls straight onto his injured leg, and then he's being lifted and placed onto the bed like some child. So now he's just embarrassed.   
  
Kuryakin has a look on his face that isn't quite a smirk.   
  
  
***  
  
  
The first few weeks in London are slightly better than his time in New York city, but barely. The only change is that he's no longer in stuck in a warehouse with Nurse Peril. The U.N.C.L.E. penthouse they're stationed at is on the luxurious end and has a great view of the city, which is all Napoleon gets to look at, because he's under injury based house arrest.  
  
He reads case files and hobbles around the kitchen making increasingly elaborate dishes as his boredom grows. Gaby is willing to grab his eccentric groceries and Kuryakin will eat anything in front of him (after Napoleon has eaten it himself), so at least he can entertain himself by watching their reactions. Peril usually offers a noncommittal shrug at best. Napoleon is determined to at least get an appreciative "hm" out of him.  
  
As it turns out, Kuryakin doesn't appreciate a good chili. He also dislikes fish of all kinds, barely touches the dumplings, and outright gags on gazpacho. Napoleon asks Gaby to bring some beets home.   
  
They usually eat dinner at island with Kuryakin and Gaby on stools and Napoleon standing on the other side still in his apron. It makes him feel more than a little like their mother. Kuryakin pointedly fiddles with his utensils until either he or Gaby has taken a bite; it makes Napoleon consider poisoning his dish for the hell of it.   
  
The phone rings just as the soup is done cooking.  
  
"Hello?"   
  
"Don't wait up for dinner." Gaby says. "I've got contacts at six and nine so I'll be out late. Try not to set Illya off, I think he was seen by an embassy guard earlier."  
  
Napoleon winces. "Did he kill him?"  
  
"Not quite." she says. "Play nice."  
  
"Yes, mother."  
  
Like clockwork, Napoleon finds a grumbling Russian walking through the door just as he returns to the kitchen. He spoons out the soup and tosses the piroszhkis onto a big plate, plopping them down in front of Kuryakin, who is broodingly cleaning his gun at the kitchen counter.   
  
"Rough day?" he asks, moving over to the wine rack. He's been able to get by with a single crutch for a few days now, and had tentatively put weight on his leg a few times. He needed to wait till the checkup to be cleared for active duty, but at least now he could escape the apartment if he so chose to and buy his own goddamn groceries.   
  
"U.S. embassy guard is useless." Kuryakin accepts the scotch, which is confirmation enough.   
  
Napoleon plops Kuryakin's bowl of borscht down in front of him. When he turns back to set down the piroszhkis he's surprised to find the Russian staring down at the soup like it's a puzzle, spoon stuck in his mouth. He hadn't waited for Napoleon to eat first.  
  
"How is it?" Napoleon asks. He'd followed the recipe and tweaked some measurements for his own tastes, which was risky, since he's never actually had borscht before.   
  
Kuryakin looks up from the soup and tugs the spoon out of his mouth like he's been caught. He blinks at Napoleon and there's the slightest shift in his expression. Napoleon can't tell whether it's good or bad.   
  
"It is passable." he finally says, though there's something about his tone. He's still looking at Napoleon with eyes just a touch wider than normal, an expression that could almost be fragile if it was on Kuryakin's face.   
  
"Maybe the poison made it taste off." Napoleon says, enjoying the way Peril's face flashes from mild panic to annoyance. "What's off about the soup?"  
  
Kuryakin takes a moment to respond. "Salt? Perhaps add less." He tries another spoon and grudgingly says, "But is okay."  
  
He finishes the bowl and half the piroszhkis. Napoleon sips his scotch and pretends not to notice when Kuryakin walks back to the kitchen for seconds.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Napoleon enters the condo after his first walk around the block since getting cleared for active duty to find two very disgruntled operatives at the dining table, a vodka bottle between them.  
  
Gaby takes a shot. "You know," she says, her voice slurred enough to give Napoleon an idea of how their day had gone. "I got used to you making dinner all the time. I'm hungry."  
  
"Brought sandwiches." Napoleon says, holding up the bag. "Kitchen Napoleon is officially out of business. What happened?"  
  
"Contact was killed." Kuryakin says flatly. He sounds significantly more sober than Gaby, though Napoleon doesn't doubt he's had the same if not more alcohol. The man can drink. "Dead end."  
  
"How close were we to finding who made the bounty?" Napoleon asks. He's been out of commission for months of this operation; it's a little disorienting to get back into the swing of things.   
  
"No way of knowing now." Gaby says. "Felt close."   
  
"Months wasted." Kuryakin looks liable to either down the entire bottle or throw it at the wall.   
  
"Well," Napoleon cuts in, partially to save the vodka. "I have an idea."  
  
"What is it?" Gaby asks.  
  
"How about we 'kill' the ambassador and go get our bounty?"   
  
"You are suggesting we fake ambassador's death?" Kuryakin says incredulously. "Government will not agree."   
  
"They don't have to agree." Napoleon says. "Only the ambassador has to agree. And I bet he's scared out of his mind with all the threats from this bounty. I think he's up for it."  
  
"You mean he's desperate enough to do it." Gaby says drily. "What if they ask for proof?"   
  
"Stage a scene."   
  
"What if they demand finger or something?" Kuryakin asks, naturally.  
  
"Then we'll find a finger and mail it to them. All we need is to make contact with them. This would do it."   
  
Kuryakin and Gaby are silent for a moment, each mulling over the idea seriously.   
  
"Okay." Gaby speaks first. "It's worth a shot."  
  
"No better alternative to Cowboy's idea." Kuryakin agrees, frowning. Napoleon rolls his eyes and chucks a sandwich at the Russian's head.  
  
"What would you do without me, Peril?"  
  
Napoleon thinks he hears something along the lines of "live my best life" muttered in Russian and tamps down a smile.


	3. the couch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating in forever! I've finally got some time on my hands so things will be rolling a bit more regularly.

(3) I got you, Comrade

 

Napoleon's french is only a little rusty. He certainly has an American accent, but there are enough tourists roaming the streets of Paris that another yankee looking for a drink doesn't turn many heads. He's dressed in one of his duller suits, slate grey and lazily fitted, with no gel in his hair. It's all to avoid what Gaby graciously called his "shiny model" persona. Now he's Kyle Banton, an underworld bounty hunter looking to trade in a brand new dead French Ambassador to the United States. 

The Ambassador had taken little convincing before agreeing to their plan. His wife was the only other civilian informed, filing a missing person report just as Gaby drove the Ambassador across the border to hide with a German contact. 

The bar where their London contacts say the bounty is to be collected is underground, accessed only through a stairwell in a wire thin alley. He's visited this city perhaps more than any other in Europe, but even he hasn't explored this less than respectable neighborhood of surrounding Paris. 

He really shouldn't be doing this alone, but it's not as if he has much choice. Kuryakin had run off to meet "contacts" at the crack of dawn, and Napoleon would be damned if he waited around all day for orders. He knew what the next step was. 

It's hard to tell that there are lights in the place at first, but when his eyes adjust it's apparent that a few orange filaments are strung about to help guide bottles to lips. Perhaps it wouldn’t have appeared as dark if not for all the smoke whirling through the air. 

He approaches the bar and doesn't even try to hide his accent as he order two lemon waters, a code so stupidly conspicuous it made him question whether proper criminals were gunning for the Ambassador's head or just a few grade-schoolers. The bartender immediately stiffens as he hears his order, and then with the slightest nod of his head leads Napoleon past a curtain into the backroom. 

The bartender turns to face him. "J'ai confiance qu'il est en bonne santé?"

"Oui." Napoleon answers confidently, while his head reels. He wants the Ambassador healthy? He wants him _alive?_

The museum flashbomb. Of course they wanted him alive; a flashbomb was meant to incapacitate, not kill. The woman that had almost blown his head off had been sent for a kidnapping, not a murder. 

"Eh bien, tout est prêt--" the bartender stops speaking, cocking his head imperceptibly. Napoleon can't see any earpiece but he can tell the man is wired. He's clearly not very good at this. Napoleon focuses on his movements, readying himself in case the man pulls a weapon. 

He sees the bartenders eyes flicker behind him but by then it's too late. The cold prick of the needle in his neck is all he registers before he is falling back , falling into the dark. There's no time for him to even remember that he has no backup. 

 

Cold metal presses against the back of his head when he wakes up. His hands are tied in front of him, tight enough that he can't seem to wriggle out of it but high enough to entirely restrict his movement. His feet have been chained losely together so he can walk slowly but not run. He's in a van; he gets thrown to the side as the driver makes a sharp right. 

They pull up abruptly and Napoleon has to curl up to avoid smashing his head into the van wall. The back door opens, sunlight bursting in, and two men unceremoniously drag him out by the feet. 

Napoleon gets hauled onto the tarmac, where a small jet is waiting to take him god knows where. Something must be amiss because his two captors--the bartender and the man who must have drugged him--start speaking in frustrated french. The pilot is late or something. Napoleon is still groggy, but not groggy enough to notice when the bartender releases his grip on Napoleon's collar to gesture at the plane.

Without much forethought, Napoleon adjusts his hands and then launches from his knees towards the van. He hears them yelling behind him, gets to the front door of the van, gets his hands until the latch, and then two sets of hands have thrown him back to the ground.

His head hits the tarmac hard. He can barely register the pain and the ringing what with the bartender's foot suddenly hitting him square in the gut. He's not sure whether its the drugs, the general exhaustion, or a creeping sense of defeat, but he can't bring himself to curl up as they rail on him; he's probably close to passing out. 

So close to passing out in fact that his eyes are closed when two quiet pops sound from above him. He keeps them closed even after the tell tale thud of two bodies hitting the ground, but he's smiling. 

"What is so funny?" Kuryakin grumbles. 

Napoleon smiles wider, and blinks open his eyes. Iron hands grip his arms and haul him to his feet. "It's just so nice to see you, Peril." he says honestly. Napoleon usually avoids standing this close to Kuryakin, if only because he has too look up to make eye contact with him, but Kuryakin still hasn't let go. 

"If you would stop getting--" 

The van's engine roars to life and then peels away across the tarmac and onto the road. Kuryakin finally relinquishes his death hold on Napoleon's arms in favor of chasing after the van for a few moments before it disappears onto the main road. 

"Nice." Napoleon says in the silence. He'd stupidly assumed only two men were in the van, and apparently so had Kuryakin. A bird nearby hoots at them mockingly. 

" _Nice?_ " Kuryakin spins around, his expression angry and strangely panicked. 

"I bugged the van door." Napoleon says, grin returning. "They'll turn up."

Kuryakin doesn't look as thrilled as he ought to at this news. He unceremoniously shoots through the chains on Napoleon's feet without warning, and starts walking away towards the main road. 

"Hey!" Napoleon starts jogging after him, though the residual effect of being drugged makes it more like an unstable gallop. "You forgot about my hands!"

Napoleon stews the entire ride back to the safehouse, tied hands in his lap, wondering why he's being punished for proactively bugging their targets. Kuryakin parks the car and sighs, before turning to Napoleon and abruptly grabbing his wrists. With more care than expected, Kuryakin slices through the ropes holding Napoleon's hands together, fingers curling around him gently. He doesn't let go when the ropes fall away. If anything, his iron grip tightens, pulling him forward slightly in his seat. Their faces are just a bit too close, but Kuryakin's eyes are so distractingly intent Napoleon hardly notices. They look like ice, freezing him in place. 

"You are no good at staying safe." Kuryakin finally says, voice low. 

Napoleon raises an eyebrow. "You're not very good at keeping me safe, partner." he replies. It's a joke, but Kuryakin's expression shifts to something almost like hurt. "Thank you, by the way." Napoleon says quickly. "For saving me back there." 

It was a miracle Kuryakin had found him at all; he must have tailed him to the bar in the first place. 

Kuryakin nods, looking away. His grip on Napoleon's wrists loosens before awkwardly pulling away. "You are welcome." he says. Napoleon sits in the car for a few moments after he's left, staring at the red marks the ropes had left, wondering what had happened to his hostile Soviet spy. 

 

Napoleon wakes up the next morning feeling as if someone had run over his torso. He inspects the mottled pattern of grey and purple on his skin in the mirror after his shower, and unfortunately greets Kuryakin with the sight of it as he walks back to his room to change. 

"Morning, Peril." he says, walking slightly faster. He's not sure what Kuryakin's reaction will be to him wandering around the penthouse half naked, but it certainly won't be positive. 

Kuryakin looks over at Napoleon and blinks rapidly before looking away. "Bruises are not too bad." he says.

"Easy for you to say." Napoleon grumbles. 

 

"Let's go find the van." Napoleon says, shrugging on his leather jacket and waving the bug's reciever at Kuryakin. The Russian makes no move to leave the couch, staring out at the Paris skyline in silent brooding. Napoleon won't even try to determine what's worked him up this time. "Hello? Anyone there?"

"Is raining out." Kuryakin says, as if that matters. "We should not go. Van will be dead end."

Napoleon's eyebrows almost exceed his hairline. "You're kidding me, right? That van is the only lead we have." 

"We should not do this case." Kuryakin replies. "Waste of time, we would be better elsewhere."

Napoleon walks until he's standing directly in front of Kuryakin, obscuring his view of Paris. He stares down at the other man and it's strange, seeing him from this angle. Kuryakin stares up at him defiantly. "What's gonna happen," Napoleon says, "Is I'm going to go do this with or without you. Just get ready to haul ass if I get in trouble again."

Kuryakin stands up, making Napoleon take a few steps back. He's glowering as he snatches the reciever from Napoleon's hands and stalks towards the door, muttering something about hauling and ass in russian that makes Napoleon stifle a smile. 

 

They've spent the entire morning and afternoon driving the streets of Paris, trying to pick up the bug's signal. Napoleon is starting to wonder whether he'd dreamt up planting the bug in some drug induced haze. Kuryakin gets progressively grumpier with each passing hour (and he'd started the day in such a lovely mood, really) that Napoleon can only shut him up for a few minutes with street food and keep driving. 

The sun is setting as they make another loop in the outer streets. "Wasted time." Kuryakin says, for the fiftieth time. 

Napoleon makes a turn. "Like you and Gaby didn't waste months in London?"

"And what were you doing in London?"

"Recovering from my serious battle wounds."

"By serious battle you mean me carrying you--"

The reciever makes the smallest of beeps, indicator light flashing. A series of regularly spaced flashes follow it, before the sound of general chattering can be heard. They must be close.

A little ways down the street, right before an alley, a small cafe has a good crowd of people sitting outside. Napoleon can hear the piano inside through the bug. 

"They must be parked next to that cafe." Napoleon says quietly, driving the car straight past the alley and looping around the streets to park a few blocks away. "I'll just approach the cafe and scope it out. You approach from the back alley."

He's about to step out of the car when Kuryakin grabs him by the shoulder, pinning him to the back of his seat. Napoleon can only blink at him for a moment in shock, even as he feels strangely calm. "No need for both to go." Kuryakin says to his hand, like he doesn't want to look Napoleon in the eyes. "You stay and keep car running."

Napoleon narrows his eyes. "Yeah, over my dead body." A pause. Kuyrakin still hasn't moved his hand; it's more warm than should be humanly possible. "Seriously, Kuryakin? I'm not your assistant field agent." Napoleon shrugs out of his grasp and opens the car door, sticks a foot out. "Are you good to go?"

Kuryakin looks at him in frustration as if _he's_ the one being weird and difficult, then relents, stepping out and closing the car door a little harder than necessary. By the time Napoleon has finished locking the car, Kuryakin has already disappeared into the dark streets. 

Napoleon makes his order at the cafe and walks out to wait in the street, where the light from the shop spills out onto chattering couples. He turns into the alley and immediately spots the van he'd been taken in. The only problem is that its lights are on and it's peeling out of the alley. 

He reigns in the swearing when some customers start to shoot him odd stares. 

Napoleon walks around the block several times, checks other shops and alleys, tries the reciever a few times. But the van is long gone, and his partner is nowhere to be found. Worry starts to creep up on him; what if Kuryakin had been ambushed? What if he was in that van?

He walks as fast as he can without looking out of place back to where the car had been parked. Kuryakin isn't there. His heart is pounding just a little too fast, and he curses himself for giving up on bugging the bastard's clothes in Rome. 

Napoleon drives back to the penthouse after an hour of waiting and Kuryakin isn't there. 

"Peril, where the fuck are you," Napoleon mutters, throwing his jacket on the couch. He resists the pull of the decanter and instead paces in front of the balcony, trying to think of any explanation for Kuryakin's disappearance that doesn't include being dead in some Parisian alleyway. Perhaps he was doing something for more than an hour and Napoleon stranded him here. Perhaps he really liked the coffee in that cafe and decided to stay for the night. Perhaps he's defecting for absolutely no reason. Perhaps--

Napoleon hears a key turning in the knob and shoots to his feet, hand on his gun. Kuryakin stumbles in, looking exhausted and unsteady on his feet. He must have really done a number on himself; the man had barely looked winded after he'd chased Napoleon's car in Germany.

"Jesus Christ, are you alright?" Napoleon rushes over to check him for injuries but Kuryakin jerks back almost violently. 

"Am fine." he grits out, swerving past Napoleon to gingerly lower himself onto the couch.

"Fine? Where the hell have you been?" Napoleon snaps, following him. "I waited almost an hour at the rendevouz point, and it's now _midnight_."

"I chased van." Kuryakin says. "Van was faster. Had to run back here." 

Napoleon can feel the incredulity rising, but then again, the man had a history of chasing vehicles. He certainly had the stamina for it. "You were chasing the van? For over an hour?" 

Kuryakin shook his head. "Lost it after half an hour. Found way back on foot." 

Napoleon closes his eyes, trying to collect his frustration. There are a million things he wants to ask, and he knows just as well that he won't get good answers. He decides to take a wild leap of faith and believe him. 

"Next time," he says. "Just let the van go. It's still bugged. I thought you'd been killed and dumped in the Seine." _And I was fucking worried sick_. 

 

He wakes up to the creak of a door, which can only be Kuryakin leaving his bedroom. At 2 in the morning. Napoleon heaves himself out of bed; if that bastard thinks he's sneaking out to do solo work he's got another thing coming. 

Except instead of finding Kuryakin ready to leave, he's sitting on that couch he likes so much, staring out into the night and taking swigs from a bottle of vodka. In the dark, his face is just a pale wash from the city lights below. He must hear Napoleon approach, but doesn't even blink when Napoleon flops down next to him with a bottle of scotch. He has to agree with Kuryakin; this case is kind of the worst. Getting shit faced hasn't sounded this appealing in a very long time.

They sit there like that for a while, lookng out at the darkness, the lights. It's peaceful, and almost intimate, in a way that sober Napoleon would not like to deal with. When their bottles run dry, Kuryakin rises to grab more without so much as a stumble. 

Napoleon's tolerance is fairly high. He still feels like a kid trying beer for the first time when he drinks with Kuryakin. 

Kuryakin uncorks the bottle, takes a swig, and speaks. 

"Would you die for your country?" 

His voice is so soft the timbre of it seems to blend into the dark. Napoleon almost doesn't register it. The question sits.

"I'm not much of the loyal type." Napoleon finally says. Nothing new there. "Not like you." He doesn't mean to say that. The scotch is making it hard for him to care. "Why are you so loyal to... to those people who treat you like.... like shit?"

Kuryakin's voice is dangerously soft when he speaks. "You do not understand what the country has been through, to be where we are today. What has been sacrificed." 

Drunk Napoleon does not register danger. Drunk Napoleon is an idiot.

"They treat you like some rabid dog on a leash and you just--"

Napoleon is suddenly staring into the grey slates of Kuryakin's eyes, half his face illuminated by the city lights. He's sunk into the couch a fair bit. It's because Kuryakin's pushing him into it by the throat. 

Something really is wrong, Napoleon thinks. Peril's ridiculously large hand is wrapped firmly around his throat, squeezing just enough for it to be uncomfortable. His eyes burn with that familiar rage, inches away from his face. Yet Napoleon feels calm. He blinks up at him slowly. 

"Do not think," Kuryakin growls. "You know anything of what I do. You are loyal to nothing." His fingers tighten. Napoleon is getting light headed, but the scotchhas turned off his self preservation.

"I'm loyal to people." Napoleon breathes out. He tries his best to get some air. "Or at least, I used to be."

Kuryakin just stares at him. He can see the rage receding, cooling, turning into the beginnings of confusion before he pulls away suddenly and Napoleon takes a big breath, sinking deeper into the couch in relief. He looks over and Kuryakin has his eyes squeezed shut, hands balled into fists on his lap. 

"Why'd you save me?" Napoleon asks, because he has lost the ability to filter his thoughts. "All those times." 

Kuryakin takes a moment to respond. "Even thieves do not deserve a death without honor." he finally says. 

"Even American thieves?" Napoleon teases. 

Kuryakin shoots him a tired glare. "You saved me first in lake. We are even then, no?"

That first mission. His life had felt strangely simpler then. Napoleon smiles, and it's a little drunkenly sad. "Yeah, we're even."

He can hear Kuryakin shifting. "Cowboy, I do not--" Kuryakin stops, looks at Napoleon and then looks away. "I do not want you to die." Napoleon looks at him and blinks in surprise. What a strange thing to say. He feels sort of like a wide-eyed goldfish, sluggish in deep water. Or maybe that's just exhaustion. "You make good peroskis. Would be a shame." 

"Thanks." Napoleon says. He knocks back his scotch and closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are about to get dicey y'all


	4. down the rabbit hole

Napoleon always wakes up still, eyes closed. It lets him assess the current situation with the facade of sleep on his side. The current situation is... strange. His head is lying on something--someone--warm, and his mind won't really let him consider who it is. 

Whoever it is starts to shift, and then Napoleon is getting lowered gently to the couch. The comforting heat is gone, and his head is pounding from a hangover. Napoleon decides to check out. He'll with... all of this... later. 

It's nearly noon when Napoleon wakes up again, his back stiff from curling on the couch. When he sits up he sees Kuryakin in the kitchen, poking around and trying (failing) to feed himself. 

"What are you making?" Napoleon asks, then yawns. His head is barely throbbing at this point. He's resolutely not thinking about how he essentially used Kuryakin as a pillow. And Kuryakin let him.

Kuryakin doesn't quite startle at the sound of his voice. It's more of a quick whip of the head followed by his patented mild glare. "It is fish." 

Napoleon sniffs and pads over to the kitchen. He stares at the black slabs in the pan. "That is inedible charcoal." 

He takes the pan and dumps the 'fish' unceremoniously into the garbage. 

"What are you--"

"That," Napoleon says, staring at him somberly. "Is where your fish belongs."

Kuryakin intensifies his glare, but doesn't complain when Napoleon wipes down the pan and starts over for him. 

They eat lunch in silence. It's uncomfortable, to say the least. Kuryakin keeps his eyes anywhere but Napoleon, and Napoleon doesn't know what to say. Sorry I cuddled with you on the couch last night? 

He spends the afternoon sitting at the kitchen island, nursing a coffee and trying to figure out how everything had gone wrong at the initial contact. How had they made him? And once they knew, why did they try and take him? Why not just kill him on the spot? 

It didn't make any sense. 

It doesn't help that Kuryakin is practically trying to polish the floor with his shoes, pacing around the kitchen and terrace in an endless loop. He has that wide-eyed, frustrated look that he gets whenever he's been thinking about a problem for a long time. The problem better not be the couch event. 

When Kuryakin completes his hundredth circuit around the condo, Napoleon gets up, puts his coffee in the sink, and steps in front of him when he passes behind the kitchen island. Kuryakin's eyes take a second to focus on him. 

"What do you want?" Kuryakin says. He's still avoiding eye contact, and he's lost that casual menace that usually makes an appearance when Napoleon steps into his space. 

Napoleon crosses his arms. "Are you going to tell me what's wrong, or is this just gonna blow up inconveniently later?" 

"Nothing is wrong." Kuryakin growls. He tries to step around but Napoleon just shifts to block him again. "Get out of my way, Cowboy." 

"Is it about the couch." Napoleon says, because fuck it. "Are you mad because of last night?"

"The couch." 

"I apologize for sleeping on you. Happy?"

"I...' Kuryakin actually looks at him for a moment, in his confusion. "I am not mad because of couch sleeping."

"Oh." Napoleon wants to shoot himself for bringing up the couch sleeping. "Then what is it?"

Kuryakin frowns at him. Things are getting back to normal. "Nothing is wrong. I am going for walk."

"Not like you weren't doing that before!" Napoleon shouts after him as the door shuts. 

 

Kuryakin returns just as the sun sets. The moment he turns from closing the door, Napoleon knows something is wrong. 

"You're hurt." he says. He knows better than to try and pat Kuryakin down; it was a good way to lose a hand. He tries to anyways and gets swatted away. 

"I am fine." Kuryakin says firmly. He's moving more stiffly than usual, taking slower steps. He's definitely not fine, but he's also not bleeding over the linoleum. "Went for a run. Found the van." 

"You did _what?_ " 

 

Kuryakin insists on driving, after months of Napoleon playing chauffeur. They quickly make their way out of central Paris as the sky grows dark, into the alleyways that turn pitch black as night falls. Overcast skies. No moonlight. 

Napoleon doesn't ask where they're going; Kuryakin is so tense that Napoleon is surprised the wheel hasn't snapped off the car. Something has been bothering him the whole day, and it's starting to put Napoleon on edge. 

Kuryakin pulls over in a street that may well be abandoned, at the opening of an alleyway. Not even a single candle is lit in any of the houses. The alley is so dark he can't make anything out past the first few feet of the alley. 

"Did you bring a flashlight?" Napoleon asks. 

Kuryakin ignores him "It is through there." he says, gesturing at the alley. 

Napoleon starts walking as Kuryakin locks the car, his fingers brushing the brick wall to his right to keep his orientation in the darkness. It's times like these when he wishes Kuryakin walked as loudly as his giant body should, because there's absolutely no indication of whether he's following behind him. 

The alley continues on for longer than any alley should. He literally hits the end of it; his nose smashes into what feels like a concrete wall. 

What.

He turns to try and make out Kuryakin in the dark. “Hey Peril, this alley isn’t—“ 

From the dark, a hand slams him into the alley wall by the throat. A fist buries itself in his gut and he gasps with air he doesn't have. The fist strikes again. Again. 

"What— _fuck_ " Napoleon tries to push him away. It's like trying to move a wall. "Stop it, Kury—" Another punch. When Napoleon speaks again, he can taste blood. "What the _fuck_ are you doing?" 

No reply. He's running out of air and his insides are being methodically reduced to a pulp. By Kuryakin. By the man who had carried him from the museum, shot half to death, who had saved him again just the other day. He had learned to trust Kuryakin, he realized, more than nearly any other person. 

Good call, Cowboy. 

The silence is broken only by Kuryakin's harsh breaths, by his own involuntary groans, and the thump of a fist connecting over and over. Napoleon doesn't scream; they have driven to a place where no one who heard would care. He's not going to beg. His stubborn pride keeps him from crying out, but even that control is flagging at this point. He can't tell if his eyes are closed or open. 

_Cowboy, I do not want you to die._

It's better this way. In this darkness, he can almost pretend he doesn't know who is doing this to him, that it's some faceless enemy. 

pNapoleon is still clutching at Kuryakin's wrist, the one connected to the hand that ins his neck to the wall. He squeezes it as if that will break its grip and manages to croak out a weak "Illya," 

The punches stop. The hand at his neck loosens slightly, and then completely falls away. It's the only thing holding Napoleon up, and he slides down slowly, clothes catching on the brick. 

He's barely touched the cobblestone when a boot connects with his gut.

He's so tired he can hardly curl in on himself. The stone is cool against his cheek, wet with rainwater and blood. 

Eventually, he feels almost numb. His mind is churning so fast with confusion and pain and an embarrassing amount of betrayal that he can hardly think. He hates the silence more than anything else, the stubborn quiet that refuses to even give him the peace of understanding he deserves. 

The blows stop coming. Napoleon can't really tell how long it has been, but the moon is out. He can see the shine on Kuryakin's polished boots. He squeezes his eyes shut and listens to Kuryakin's labored breathing even out to silence. Napoleon is allowed to just lie there, like he is confident that he can't get up. He would be correct. 

When Napoleon speaks, it's more of an incoherent, quiet rasp. "If I'm going to die here." he whispers. He lets the words hang in the air more for himself than Kuryakin. "Could you at least tell me why?" 

More silence. Kuryakin—or at least his boots—seem to have frozen in place. After a moment, he kneels and brushes his hand through Napoleon's hair, trailing down to his neck. Napoleon closes his eyes on reflex, like a dog being pet. He recognizes the placement of Kuryakin's fingers before he even starts applying pressure to his carotid, and in seconds the world is well and truly black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha sorry y'all


End file.
